The Black Opera (40 page)

Conrad pieced his knowledge together. “After the Armistice at Waterloo… The fighting ended, and later I heard the Emperor of the North was still on his throne. I gave up following political affairs.”
In disgust
, went unspoken. “Word has it, he's given up foreign conquest, and is concentrating on building up trade so the Gallic Empire won't fall behind Britain and the Americas. Is that true, sir?”

“True enough. He needs prosperity. Or else the people might start remembering his amazing run of victories, and how that's now over.”

Ferdinand began to walk back along the cleared earth before the new building. His restlessness might have been physical, but Conrad—treading in his wake—thought it was not.

“Before the war,” the King said, “Signore Castiello-Salvati helped with the diplomatic negotiations between Sicily and the North… I don't know how much he told the Prince's Men before he died. As little as he could, I expect. But they are ruthless in what they do.”

There was a moment's silence in which Conrad felt plainly how the King missed the man with whom he had worked closely.

He's lost a friend, and one of the few who know him as a man, not a king
. It will take him years, if not longer, to decide whether another man is trustworthy.

The slow illumination came.
And I suppose it begins with trusting them to work for him.

Conrad put the momentous thought aside for consideration. As gently as he could, he said, “I don't yet understand what you're telling me, sir.”

The King of the Two Sicilies walked on, leaving the new building behind, and Conrad followed him past evergreen groves of holm oak, palm, and the stark trunks and penumbral clumps of umbrella pine. If not warm, the day was nonetheless brilliant, and if there was snow on the black of Vesuvius's crown, there were buds in the bushes here, spring well underway.

The King at last stopped at the top of a bluff. Naples lay below. His shoulders straightened.

“It appears—” Ferdinand clasped his white-gloved hands behind his back. “—that there has been a secret coup. The Emperor of the North has been deposed, and sent into exile.”

“What!”

“Oh, you won't have read this in the
Giornale
.” Ferdinand turned his head and pinned Conrad with a no-nonsense gaze. “Most of the councillors of the Empire have been confidentially told that the Emperor is dying. That includes all his old Generals, who most certainly wouldn't allow him to be put out of power if they knew he
wasn't
dying—isn't even ill.”

The King frowned.

“This is a long-laid plot. It plays on the fears of the Generals and Council members that, without the Emperor, the North will fall into ruin, and therefore the passing-over of power must be strictly orchestrated. The heads of the Council have long planned that, in such a case, they will make graded announcements, over some months—the Emperor has had a riding accident—an injury—from which he recovers—relapses—is ill—is dying… And by that time every position of power will be filled with staunch Council supporters, there'll be no dissent, and the only thing to be arranged will be the State funeral.”

Conrad found himself quite literally open-mouthed.

He blurted out, “He's been sent into
exile?”

“Oh, quite. Where could he be sent? Who could—
would
—take him, and be trusted to keep quiet about it?” Ferdinand snapped off a pine twig and began stripping the short needles from it, one at a time. “As things stand, the Emperor has been anonymously exiled to the island of Stromboli. And, since that's part of my territory, I'm his prison governor. Hence my visit, to see him properly imprisoned.”

Ferdinand held up the skeleton twig just as Conrad would have spoken.

“One move from me that's sympathetic to his Highness the Emperor—one word—and the secret cabal of Northern councillors who executed the coup can have my throne. We escaped take-over during the war only due to expert diplomacy. Now, unfortunately, that cabal has reason to desire unrest in the Sicilies, to allow them to take control.”

Conrad blinked. His mind abruptly supplied him with the connection. “That cabal of councillors are Prince's Men?”

“Didn't I tell you, Conrad, that they were everywhere? That includes the Council of the North.”

The King threw down his twig and started on another, ignoring the green stains on his gloves.

“We expected a move against us, after they examined our strength. We've challenged them with the counter-opera; their spies will have told them that by now. That challenge was always going to be answered. I thought it would be local sabotage. But no… This is on a larger scale than I expected.”

Conrad fought to settle with the concept that his viewpoint had just shifted from Naples to Europe.

The figure of Tullio Rossi emerged from bushes further down the bluff, gave Conrad a casual salute, and followed a grassy slope off into another stand of pines.

“But… If you do everything to keep the Emperor a prisoner…” Conrad frowned. “Then when he escapes, and he
will
, and re-takes his throne—
he'll
take over the Two Sicilies.”

“Oh, he'll escape.” Ferdinand gave a dry little nod. “I would prefer to place my bet on the man who won Austerlitz and Borodino, rather than a clutch of politicians, no matter if they have the power of the Prince's Men at their heart. But as it stands
now
, it does mean the Prince's Men in the Empire can twist the screw down on us at their pleasure…”

“Why not kill the Emperor?” Conrad suddenly asked. “Why just depose him?”

Ferdinand showed his teeth in a smile. “Too much awe. The ‘Great Emperor'? There are too few of the Prince's Men as Councillors. If they'd used the knife on the Emperor, every other man's hand would turn against them—or, if they
weren't known to be the murderers, the court would tear itself apart to find guilty men. So, a compromise: his Imperial Majesty is sent away to where he'll ultimately die of ‘sickness'—poison.”

Conrad reached over and took the stripped, bark-less twig out of Ferdinand's hands and tossed it away—only realising afterwards that this probably amounted to severe
lèse majesté
.

But it would be worse if I'd strangled him out of sheer irritation!

“Any way the Two Sicilies comes out of it, the King ends up looking guilty. That's their plan, sir?”

“I think that if they leak the plan
in advance
, so people learn of the Emperor's imprisonment on one of my islands—they can have me deposed before our counter-opera ever sees the stage.”

“Che cazzo!”
Conrad added, in English, with feeling:
“Shite.”

“Indeed. And I can't be seen to do anything. However.” Ferdinand smiled crookedly. “I have no intention of letting this attack remove me. In some ways, this latest attention by the Prince's Men on Naples is fortuitous. I want
you
to help me arrange a secret escape for the Emperor from Stromboli. One I can reasonably claim that I don't know anything about.”

A
nd I'd been thinking I was used to shocks
.

All Conrad could manage was an embarrassing squeak.

“Me?
I'm not a diplomat! I'm a
librettist!”

“I believe you capable. As I said, a day or two out of the city, just now, will ameliorate some of our immediate problems. I ask you because of the nature of the planned escape,” Ferdinand said, “and because I judge I can trust you.”

The King might be thinking of blackmail: of Alfredo Scalese, of the ever-present difficulties with the Church—
But he's not
, Conrad was startled to realise.

There are things which would give Ferdinand a hold over me, and he's not stupid enough to ignore them. But he's made an assessment of my character. An atheist's character.

And I must have made an assessment of his: I'm trusting that I won't be set up
.

Taken aback, Conrad was not aware until the King waved a sheet of paper at him that it was an annotated calendar. A neat hand had drawn maps in
the margins. The King's finger traced down the paper to March, and to the fourteenth, re-folded it, and gave it to Conrad to put away in his coat.

“We can get him off Stromboli easily enough if he agrees. You'll be inviting the exiled Emperor to the Teatro San Carlo, for the first night of
L'Altezza azteca, ossia Il Serpente Pennuto
.”

“Good—grief!” Conrad opened his mouth to protest, and shut it without another word.

“It won't seem unusual for the Emperor to attend such a great social gathering. That can be glossed by me to his masters as ‘keeping the Emperor content in his gilded cage.' Give him seats in one of the boxes with easy access. Then, in the general confusion of the counter-opera's success—”

Ferdinand spoke over the rustling ilex leaves with audible optimism:

“—a carriage can spirit the Emperor away, and take him to the northern border. There, the ordinary soldiers will rally to him as he marches to the capital, and he'll depose the Council composed of the Prince's Men.”

“And the King of the Two Sicilies will gain a powerful ally against any future attacks by the Prince's Men.” Conrad turned his shoulder as the brisk wind changed to another quarter. It brought the scent of early-flowering camellias. He sought Ferdinand's gaze, pale as the sky. “Sir, I'm convenient for this—but I'm not convinced I'm competent.”

At the far end of the copse, the bushes shivered and gave birth to Tullio Rossi, greatcoat opened to the breeze. Fists in his pockets, he strolled idly down to meet them.

I'll give him one thing: no one could ever imagine he was here to greet the King of the Two Sicilies!

Ferdinand exchanged a nod with the ex-sergeant. He made no move to urge him away.

“In fact, Conrad, there is a problem I do think you'd be best suited to solve.” Ferdinand turned to him with a small smile. “The Emperor doesn't trust his ‘jailer.'”

Tullio's eyebrows shot up.

Ferdinand continued. “Someone in the Prince's Men evidently thought ahead. The Emperor has been informed by men he trusts that the King of the Two Sicilies has been paid to assassinate him. So if
I
offer a helpful escape—he'll think it's a trap to get him shot.”

“And you want me to think up a way around that?” Conrad couldn't help sounding incredulous.

“I've met your servant, here,” Ferdinand said, dryly regarding Tullio. “It appears that if I trust you, I trust him. Put both your minds to work on this. You
have the whole voyage down there. After all, you only need to make his Imperial Majesty trust you, Conrad. And you're a trustworthy man.”

Conrad did not remember the words in which he consented. He did recall politely refusing the offer of a seat in the Emperor's carriage.

“I'll walk down,” he said. “Clear my head.”

He followed the footpaths down Vomero hill, the new walls of the museum vanishing behind him. His view was clear across the city and the bay to Vesuvius's crater, bathed in golden afternoon light. Down in the town, the haze of cooking smoke rose up.

Tullio Rossi slid into step beside him.

Conrad found himself waving his hands. He held his shriek down to a whisper.
“I don't think up diplomatic excuses, I think up opera plots!”

“Wouldn't worry about it, padrone. It's obvious we're the visible distraction for whatever's really going on.”

Conrad shut his mouth, since it appeared to be open.

King Ferdinand didn't say that
wasn't
the case… Perhaps he thinks I'm qualified to understand the implications of an absence?

“Anyway, big boss is right,” Tullio added. “You need to be out of Naples for a bit, right now, for more reasons that I've got fingers. And possibly toes.”

“I think I'm getting a headache…”

Tullio grinned at that, as Conrad had hoped he might.